Madness Combat: Numbers
by Spirit9871
Summary: That's all he is. And that's all we are. (A two-shot Alias and I wrote for the Madness: Project Nexus 2 forum's birthday contest). [Beta-Readers and Co-Authors: Zanouji & Alias-Maxima]
1. 1957 - Numbers

Numbers.

Since the first Neanderthal placed a stick in the sand for every star in the sky, numbers have plagued Humanity.

Numbers bore different masks. Minimalist dots and tallied, scratched lines. Roman numerals: those stalwart columns, etched with the iron-fisted conformity which typified their namesake empire. At the apex of their journey, the numbers took their final form: graceful sweeps and arcane lines, birthed from the greatest geniuses of Arabia.

People use numbers to perform great deeds. Feats of physics and architecture, once thought impossible, manifest on this planet, marring its natural beauty with Humanity's harsh expansionism. Numbers birthed science, science birthed invention, and invention catapulted mankind forwards, from dark caves into a dazzling, bright universe with hopeful, novel prospects.

But, in the end, nobody ever talks about the Numbers themselves.

 _ **1957.**_

* * *

Numbers was a very simple person with very simple ambitions. His day would start off with three eggs and plain, white bread cut into three pieces. If he didn't have three eggs, he'd have one egg, cut into thirds. If he couldn't have three egg pieces, then he wouldn't eat that morning. The same rules applied to the bread.

It had to be _three_. Everything had to be _three_.

Three was something essential to the young boy's life, just as milk was to cereal or a water was to a fish.

Numbers didn't know his own name, nor could he see why it mattered. Nobody wanted to talk to him back in grade school, and nobody wanted to talk to him now unless they were ordered to. The few that knew him, however, would sometimes whisper his nickname.

 _Nobody Numbers._

Numbers was definitely weird, but he couldn't help it. It was his lifestyle. The things he did became gossip of the school, and gossip was often filled with rumors. Even if you didn't care or ask about it, you could still hear things about _him._ He stood out.

 _He can't wash his hands after going to the bathroom, he's too stupid to know how to close more than three buttons on his ugly blue overalls, he can only count to three, he only knows numbers._

That last rumor was true, but for others… rumors are just rumors. They don't mean anything other than baseless conclusions. Nothing guaranteed that these things were true about him. Perhaps they were half truths or, just a lies, made to spread word of his inability to do things normal kids could do.

That was because no one liked Numbers.

For good reason.

Numbers didn't hate people, but he hated reading, hated science, and hated history. None of it made sense to him after Kindergarten. The words were on the paper and he could look at them and make the corresponding sounds with his vocal chords, but he couldn't _read_ them.

Understanding the words wasn't difficult; it was outside of the realm of possibility. The definition and the small, inked symbols were two mutually exclusive items.

"I can't understand," he would say at times, even for simple topics. students would look at him with a confused look. ' _I can't understand him,'_ they would say in their head.

The teacher would give an understanding nod and smile, but patience runs thin with Numbers. The teachers would break, snap, shout loudly, sometimes even say bad words.

Numbers didn't understand why the teacher had to call his parents, and why they would all get so mad at him. Sometimes he even wondered if he was the reason why they were so angry.

Someone once told Numbers what "divorce" meant, but after a few seconds, it all didn't make sense again. All he knew was that Daddy was going away.

Why is everyone so mean?

There was only one comfort that Numbers could find within life: Math. If it wasn't word problems, then the numbers on his paper made sense. They were nice to him. He could remember this. It made him feel at peace. After all, so many threes were on his paper.

So many numbers, so much fun. What made the numbers happier was him drawing on them, connecting their friends and scribbling in new pals, until finally, the party is finished. Everybody was surprised at how fun the party was and wanted to be invited to next time.

And so, the party grew bigger.

* * *

Numbers would go to different buildings only to be tortured with more non-math gibberish. He didn't understand why he couldn't just stay in grade school, where the children would only torment him with words, but Mom insisted.

But there were his saviors: numbers, not words. His math teachers had faith in his abilities. They even smiled when they saw him.

In his senior year, one of his math teachers even put him in a Pi value memorizing competition. Jaws dropped from the judges once he reached the 1,000th digit, but it wasn't until Numbers recited 3,333 digits of Pi that he had to stop to use the bathroom, where he somehow forgot the rest of the sequence just by urinating, letting the rest of the numbers in his head swirl down the pipes.

Numbers moved on to the state tournament, where he would reach _exactly_ the 3,333rd digit until yet again having to use the restroom, but it was more than enough to win first.

Numbers became a celebrity. People began to respect him for what he was rather than what he wasn't. Even those who bullied him in the past were now taking credit as Numbers' initial best friends.

But he cared little for his newfound personality, so long as he could play with the numbers.

One day, three nice men, sitting in the audience of the national tournament, gave him an offer. They promised to give Numbers as many numbers as he wanted, and that his mother would be happy.

They wore black suits, black ties, and black shades.

* * *

Numbers found himself sitting behind a desk, three sharpened pencils that will never be used inside a glass mug. There were no more nice men.

He asked for Mom. They laughed.

It was like school all over again.

The man wearing the labcoat said he was Daddy. But he wasn't Daddy, and Numbers knew it. So he became Labcoat Daddy.

"Your job is to memorize as many sequences that come to you in one hour. The numbers and names come out from this slot right here," Labcoat Daddy would say, pointing at a little machine with a slit on the top. "Every once in a while, I will come back, and I will have a list of numbers. Just give me the right names for each number. Easy enough, no?"

"Your job is to be kept _totally confidential_ ; that means tippy-top secret. If anyone other than me asks you for any names or numbers, don't give it to them. You'll make Daddy very, _very_ unhappy if you do so, do you understand?"

Numbers didn't understand, but he nodded anyways.

Labcoat Daddy wasn't very nice. He made the angry sounds and hurt Numbers whenever he did something wrong, like talking about his work outside of his office.

 _07051 is Thomas Karloff._

 _09102 is Harold Lorenzen._

 _01097 is Michael LeBlanc._

...Not that it mattered. Numbers was happy with his job.

 _03003 is XianQing Chen._

 _05510 is YangHou Xi._

 _00877 is Nicholaus Leonowicz._

Minutes, hours, days, then years.

Three years had passed.

Sometimes, Numbers just sat in his chair with nothing to do. Sometimes, the numbers would magically come out of the machine, with the names in sets of threes on a little slip of paper. Numbers would remember the three five-digit sequences and the names. And, when Labcoat Daddy came at the end of the month, Numbers would give him names in exchange for numbers.

 _10006 is Sergey Antakov._

 _01873 is Aaron Garland._

 _00057 is Simon Fletcher._

Labcoat Daddy said he was doing his job nicely after the 78,000th set he memorized.

Numbers still had a hard time making friends, though he did his job the way he was supposed to. The nervous tics that plagued him since infancy never disappeared, and he couldn't maintain any sort of meaningful conversation. Unless the conversation was about mathematics. Or the number three.

There was one exception.

* * *

"May I sit here?"

The voice took Numbers by surprise, as he jolted to the side with a half-eaten tuna sandwich in his hands. Nobody wanted to sit next to Numbers, especially after one of the Agents recorded one of the sessions with Labcoat Daddy. Everyone knew Numbers. Everyone knew what he did. He was the undertaker, and talking to the undertaker was an omen.

"Passing Numbers' lips," quickly became a euphemism for "K.I.A."

Numbers stopped going to the cafeteria. And yet, this Grunt had come all the way to his room, and dared to address him.

"... So that's a no?" The man asked again, slightly tilting his head.

Shaking his head, Numbers patted the seat next to him. Even as he trembled inside.

"Uh, thanks? I guess." the agent shrugged, taking his seat.

Numbers remained, frozen solid in fear with cheeks full of food. What was he supposed to do in a scenario like this? Should he try and start a conversation? Or should he just get up and-

"I heard your name is Numbers. Is that just a nickname? Or do you have a real...?"

Numbers blankly stared. He slowly swallowed a third of the sandwich.

"... You don't talk much I see. Well, I guess it _was_ rude of me to just try and jump into your personal details like that."

The agent then stuck out his hand towards Numbers.

"Name's Hector. Hector Oss."

Numbers slowly reached out to shake the seemingly friendly hand. Hector grinned and let go of the handshake first, relaxing back into his seat. In an attempt to seem not too awkward, Numbers quickly focused on eating his food. He ripped the remnants of his sandwich into three chunks.

"Speaking of which…" Hector started.

Barely a minute passed after the handshake before Numbers' newfound companion spoke again. He pulled out a newspaper and after flipping it over to the 14th page, plopped it in front of himself. He procured a wooden pencil from his suit pocket and started tapping his chin with the eraser.

Numbers saw numbers. He couldn't help but lean over and look.

"See this gigantic 16 by 16 puzzle?" Hector asked, noting Numbers' curiosity. "I tried solving it on my way here. Oh, you probably didn't know, but I'm from the East coast. Fresh out of boot camp. Anyways, I just couldn't solve this damn puzzle, and some of the other guys said that you were good at figuring this kind of stuff out, so I was wondering if-"

Numbers' eyes were already heavily focused on the puzzle, repeatedly scanning every row and column. After a good thirty seconds of agitated analysis, he dropped his sandwich onto the table and started tugging at the pencil in Hector's hand.

Hector raised an eyebrow and let go.

He watched as Numbers began scribbling over the newspaper at an inconceivable speed, filling each row of numbers, three at a time, in straight lines.

Just as suddenly as it started, Numbers' answering spree halted. The pencil hovered over a number Hector had written earlier.

Hector peeked over Numbers' shoulder. It was quite obvious, by now, that Hector had filled one of the boxes incorrectly. It was this incorrect box that Numbers currently scrutinized; a box filled with a dead number.

Hector erased all his answers. The puzzle seemed to light up once again.

Three minutes, and the puzzle was solved. Hector stood and raised the newspaper up back to his face, checking to make sure if Numbers wasn't faking the results. He wasn't. The results all added up.

Hector swallowed nervously. He was totally speechless. He couldn't have filled the entire puzzle up this fast even _with_ the answer key.

"I… How on Earth did you manage to solve this so fast?!" He managed to utter.

Numbers thought hard about what to say. "They all party and want fun."

"F...Fun?"

Hector blinked in mute astonishment, then stared at Numbers in puzzlement of wonder.

"They danced," Numbers started waving his arms, as if he were dancing to exaggerate his explanation, then abruptly stopped. "They danced after you... took away the bad. Bad ones."

Hector awkwardly observed Numbers' "dance" and shook his head. Another question came to mind, so he changed the topic.

"So, Numbers... do you even know how to play Sudoku?"

"Su-do-ku?" Numbers tilted his head slightly, his tongue deliberately enunciating each foreign syllable. "Su-do-ku. This... is Sudoku?"

Hector stared back at the puzzle, sitting down slowly. He put away the newspaper, thinking that Numbers would be more at ease if he didn't have the puzzle in front of him.

"... Yeah. That's Sudoku." Hector said with a nod. He quickly changed the subject once more, to avoid Numbers' awkward retorts.

"So what's a smarty-pants like you doing stuck in an office job? Can't you do more than just puzzles?"

"Pants." Numbers murmured, lowering his eyes.

"Uh. Nevermind, I guess..." Hector said, scratching the back of his head. "Listen, my break's almost over. We'll talk some more later, alright? Might bring some more Sudoku puzzles too, maybe even some of those calculation problems that those engineers keep complaining about. Sound good?"

"I like math." Numbers' favorite sentence. Three words regarding a topic he loved.

"I'll... take that as a yes."

* * *

Numbers gained a friend; not earned, but given.

Just as Hector had first promised, every single lunch break, he would sit beside Numbers and they would exchange math problems. Other than the word problems, which Hector had to painstakingly explain, Numbers breezed through anything and everything math-related.

As was expected.

Even after two years later, when Hector became a 1337, Numbers was still stuck in his little office reading numbers. Numbers wanted to be a 1337 too with those 3's inside his title, but whenever he mentioned the idea he was laughed off by everyone. Even Hector couldn't find the words to help encourage Numbers to chase for the seemingly impossible goal.

There was a new Labcoat Daddy. Numbers didn't know what happened to the old one, but the new Labcoat Daddy was nicer, at least.

"Due to some… complications, we're going to have to increase the workload on you." The new Labcoat Daddy said, "You will now be working thirteen hours. The papers will being coming more frequently, so be more vigilant. Is that clear?"

Numbers still didn't understand, but he still nodded anyways. His job though, wasn't as fun as it was before.

The machine on his desk began to sound tired, as more and more five-digit numbers scrambled in trios to reach Numbers' hands. Numbers felt his head grew heavy, at times. The numbers were dancing in all different styles in all different directions, making them harder to organize and recite. They were no longer playing with Numbers. Every digit demanded attention.

After a not-fun, 13-hour work-shift, Numbers left his office. For the first time in his entire life, Numbers was tired of looking at anything to do with math. He just wanted to return to his cot in the corner and close his eyes and count threes until everything goes black.

"Hey Numbers."

Numbers slowly turned behind him, recognizing the voice to be someone other than Hector's. He made a small, awkward wave and hunched his back slightly in respect when he saw three muscular men, just 5 feet away from him, wearing grey shirts, like everyone else. They were smiling, but even Numbers could tell they weren't friendly smiles.

As soon as he turned around, the first Grunt in the trio spoke again.

"Where ya goin'?"

Numbers turned around, noticing that even though he took a few steps forward, the five feet of distance between him and the three men hadn't grown any longer.

"... sleep." Numbers mumbled.

"Sleep? Already? The night's young! You should loosen up, buddy! Get a few drinks with my pals here." The three Grunts moved close enough for Numbers to smell the stench of the smelly water Daddy used to always drink from his shiny glass bottle.

His _real_ Daddy, that is.

"Come on, just one!" The leader of the trio continued, "One drink won't kill ya just cause it ain't three!"

"Labcoat Daddy said strangers are bad." Numbers enunciated.

"Strangers? How could you call us strangers Numbers, after all this stuff we know about you? You know, you like math, you like those tuna sandwiches you always bring to lunch..."

Though the Grunt's smile still stuck on his face, his eyes told a different story. A story of _hatred_. It was a story Numbers knew well.

"you like... _your job._ "

"S-sorry," Numbers stuttered. The bad men were very close now. "Don't... know!"

And then, Numbers heard nothing but pound, pound, pound in his ears, the pound, pound, pound of his feet against the ground, the pound, pound, pound of his heartbeats.

"Get the lil' bastard!" He heard a coarse voice yell.

Even though Numbers had a three-second head start, the men chasing him were trained, conditioned soldiers. Men in the prime of their life.

Numbers was just Numbers.

Two hands grabbed Numbers' shirt and yanked him to the ground. Thud. Stars. He heard heavy breathing. Two of the bad men were walking circles around him. There was someone sitting on Numbers' back, and he couldn't stand up.

A large, smelly hand covered his mouth.

"Numbers… I don't like it when my friends try to run away from me, yeah?" The Grunt on top of him gloated, between heavy breaths, "We just wanted to play, that's all! I even brought two of my friends here so you'd see three of us! You like threes, don'tcha?"

The bad man then turned to one of his companions.

"Tie 'im up like the lil' pig he is!"

One of the other two big men laughed, and Numbers felt very rough cloth bind his hands and feet together. The other big man was holding a long object. Numbers couldn't see what it was, but he was swinging it down towards Numbers' head, and he was scared, and-

 _BAM!_

Only stars, Numbers realized. The stick only brought twinkling stars.

* * *

 _SPLASH!_

Cold. Numbers gasped and shivered as he opened his eyes.

Numbers tried to shake off the water that drenched his clothes, but he quickly realized that it was impossible. Something hard was tied to his back... No, he was tied against something hard.

He wanted to ask what it was, but a bad-tasting cloth was wrapped around his mouth.

"Rise and shine." The familiar voice of the first Grunt from before entered his right ear. An evil whisper.

Numbers watched quietly, not struggling, not making a sound. This only seemed to make the Grunts angrier.

The Grunt walked from Numbers' side to the front of his head. He grabbed at the sides of Numbers' head, staring at him with wide eyes.

"You know where you are?" The Grunt whispered again, "This is what they call the 'Execution Fields'! This is where all the bad and useless agents go and get _shot_ and _killed!_ "

The Grunt turned Numbers' head to his right, forcing him to look at the hard wooden thing he was tied to.

"They always make sure to clean up the bodies afterwards, but if you look carefully enough at the post, there's some blood still painted on it. Think you can count how many people died just by that? Give me their names too while you're at it."

The Grunt waited for ten seconds in silence.

He smacked Numbers' head into the post. Numbers felt some words and numbers fly out of his head, replaced by pain. Lots of pain. The man laughed and started walking backwards.

"You read the Bible, Numbers? Of course you don't, cause you're a dumb, godless sack of meat, aren'tcha? Well, the story goes like this: whenever some poor fuckers get caught doing something they're not supposed to do, they get cornered or trapped and people just throw fucking rocks at them. And I have to say, the words of our Lord and Savior have never inspired me more!"

At this point, the Grunt was 6 feet away from Numbers, standing beside his two accomplices.

"You must think you're cool shit, huh? Calling out the names of dead people like they're nobody so someone can slap a steak on your lunch tray." The Grunt raged, "I'm certain that a stupid, unholy bastard like you doesn't even understand what I'm saying right now. And I'm certain every angel up in Heaven is cheering for these rocks to hit your head hard enough for the numbers spill out. So how about it, yeah?"

As the sentence was finished, Numbers could see the rocks blurring past him from the darkness. Most of them missed, but the ones that did manage to make contact rebounded against his chest and stomach.

Numbers wheezed against the gag on his mouth. He was scared. He didn't want to die.

 _SMACK!_

One of the rocks struck Numbers' forehead. Numbers only heard ringing and laughter, laughter from the three very, very, very bad men who were hurting him oh so much.

"I ain't gonna die with ya sayin' my name, Numbers!"

Numbers felt something warm trickle down his forehead. Everything was blurrier, and the more he struggled to stay awake the more tired he became. He wanted to sleep.

"Hey, Bruce," another Grunt from the trio spoke, "I think that's enough. Let's take him down from there and-"

"Simon, who's the one with the knife here?" Bruce spoke.

The Simon man looked scared. "... You are."

"And didn't they tell us, 'by any means necessary'?"

Simon went quiet. Bruce dropped his rock and pulled out a shiny, sharp metal triangle. He walked back to Numbers, grabbing his hair one hand as he held the sharp triangle in the other.

"You know what the worst form of torture is? I read it somewhere in a book: you cut off some guy's eyelids and force him to stare at the sun, while you cover his balls in honey and let the ants chew them off. Sadly, we don't have any ant nests nearby here, and somebody's bound to find you before the torture's over, but we can get creative, yeah? Unless... you're willing to talk."

Bruce raised his knife up next to Numbers' head. The blade was shiny against the white orb in the sky.

"Yesterday's numbers. _Give 'em to me_."

Numbers remembered Labcoat Daddy's most important rule. Do _not_ give anyone-other than Labcoat Daddy- the numbers he read. And if he made Labcoat Daddy mad again…

Bruce used the metal triangle and drew a red line on Numbers' cheek. Numbers felt more warm water rolling out and making Bruce's metal triangle red. Numbers screamed. He didn't like the red. Everything hurt. He wanted to sleep.

"You've seen what I'm already willing to do to you. If you promise not to scream and give me the numbers, we won't hurt you anymore, okay? It's that easy. Don't fucking test my patience."

A bead of sweat went down the side of Numbers' head. Labcoat Daddy came to his mind, yelling at him and hitting him and saying bad words. But this pain… the pain that Bruce's metal triangle caused just hurt too much. All they wanted were just a bunch of numbers. What could they do with a bunch numbers? They could do nothing with a bunch of numbers.

Maybe he really should-

"NUMBERS!"

Numbers immediately knew this voice. It was not Bruce's voice, and it was not the other bad men's voice.

Bruce turned to his right, and a fist smashed into the center of his face. As Bruce staggered back, Numbers saw the face of his savior passing in front of him. His heart leapt.

 _Hector!_

Bruce lost his balance from the sudden attack and fell. The back of his head hit one of the sharp rocks he had thrown earlier and made a loud _crack_. There was a lot of red.

While Simon and the third Grunt ran towards Bruce, Hector untied Numbers and removed the gag from his mouth.

"Bruce! Bruce wake the fuck up! Come on man!" Simon shouted, shaking his partner's limp body.

"Numbers…" Hector traced a finger over all of the red lines on Numbers' face. Hector's hand came away red and wet. "Christ... what did they do to you Numbers?"

"You…" The bad Simon man started to speak.

Simon lowered Bruce's body, seizing the knife Bruce dropped earlier. Gripping the handle with white knuckles, he turned towards Hector, eyes red with anger.

"You killed him!" Simon howled. "You killed him, you son of a bitch!"

Hector grabbed Simon's arm before the blade plunged into his chest. Numbers was frozen in fear as Hector's hand shook, the knife inching closer and closer and closer.

"Do you mind explaining what you gentlemen are doing here?"

Another familiar voice from the darkness.

 _Labcoat Daddy!_

Relief washed over Numbers yet again.

Simon immediately dropped the knife and hastily saluted. He pulled away from Hector and pointed at him.

"Sir! This man just killed a fellow agent-!"

"I'm well aware." Labcoat Daddy interjected, stopping Simon mid-sentence, "And I actually _am_ aware as to why you're all here. My earlier question was a rhetorical one."

Simon became even more tense. "What are you-?"

"I'm honestly quite disappointed. To think that you three would actually forget the AAHW has hidden cameras installed in every corridor of its facilities. After all..."

Labcoat Daddy sternly glared through his spectacles. He was very, very, very angry, and he was going to hurt these bad men.

" _... you three are undercover Anti-AAHW, aren't you?"_

Simon's jaw sagged.

"You... you...!"

In some last-ditch, desperate attempt, he lunged towards Labcoat Daddy.

Labcoat Daddy didn't even flinch.

 _BANG!_

Simon fell backwards, a red spot in his stomach. Red stuff dribbled from his mouth as his hands fell to his sides, limp like noodles. Labcoat Daddy placed the nozzle of his black L-shaped object on Simon's forehead.

 _BANG!_

The third Grunt watched this unfold in horror. He stumbled and tried to run away, fast. Labcoat Daddy pointed his black L once again.

 _BANG!_

 _And then there were none._

Numbers was breathing and sweating heavily. The sounds coming from the black L-shaped object in Labcoat Daddy's hands were the loudest sounds Numbers had heard in his life. Even Hector couldn't hide the surprise on his face.

Labcoat Daddy turned to Hector. "You did this agency, and me, a huge favor. Your actions have been noted."

"T-thank you, sir!" Hector stammered with a shaky salute.

Labcoat Daddy then walked up to each of the three corpses, pulling out a small plastic card from each of their pockets. Each card had a number, a name, and a little picture. Labcoat Daddy grinned as he fanned the cards in his hand. It looked a little like he was showing them off.

"Here are three more sequences to memorize." Labcoat Daddy calmly explained, as he handed the cards to Numbers.

Something warm trickled down Numbers' leg.

* * *

Numbers couldn't sleep the next night, so he sat outside, staring up into the starry sky. The sight was soothing; he could group up all the little stars far, far away into beautiful, twinkling triplets.

"Can't sleep?"

The voice caused him to jolt, but Numbers quickly eased back down when he saw it was Hector.

"No." Numbers replied.

"Don't blame ya," Hector agreed. "Yesterday must've been damn scary."

Numbers said nothing as he looked back up into the sky. Hector sat beside him, pulling out a pack full of fire sticks. He pointed one towards Numbers.

"Want one?"

Numbers shook his head. Mom used to always use those after Daddy left. Numbers hated the smell of the fire sticks. It always made him cough and wheeze.

Hector placed the pack beside him and pulled out a lighter. The end of the stick lit up and Hector breathed out smoke.

"Man. I swore to my parents I wouldn't ever let one of these touch my lips. They kept saying this stuff would kill me. Now it's the only way I can calm down. So much for making promises, huh?"

"Yes." Numbers murmured.

Seeing as this wasn't making for good conversation, Hector looked up to the sky with Numbers, stick still in mouth.

"How many you think are there?" Hector asked.

Numbers squinted as he stared at the sky. "1,347,849,3…"

Hector rolled his eyes. "That was a rhetorical question."

* * *

" _I'm well aware." Labcoat Daddy said, stopping Simon mid-sentence, "And I actually am aware as to why you're all here. My earlier question was a rhetorical one."_

* * *

" _You know where you are?" The Grunt whispered again, "This is what they call the 'Execution_

 _Fields'! This is where all the bad and useless agents go and get shot!"_

* * *

Hector's words triggered a memory inside Numbers' head. Though talking was a nuisance, he knew he had to share something that was bothering him to the only person who cared to listen in words.

Not numbers.

"Hec...tor?"

Hector's eyes widened. This was the first time Numbers had called him by his name.

"Numbers… did you just call my name?"

No response from Numbers, apart from a blank, confused stare. Hector decided to press on.

"What is it?" Hector asked.

"The bad men said," Numbers pointed towards the posts, "the… useless people go there?"

Hector was taken by surprise with this question. He put out his light-stick and turned to Numbers.

"Numbers. You're good at math, right?"

"I like math." Numbers replied. It was a sentence he had learned and practiced and perfected over the many long years of school.

"Well I fucking suck at it. I hated math from algebra to fucking calculus. After they taught me one plus one equals two, none of it made any sense. I could read English and history textbooks and memorize dates and write the best damn reports you've ever seen in your entire life. But math? Sweet Jebus, it's a miracle I even passed."

Hector placed one hand on Numbers' shoulder. "Point is, everyone is useful in one way or another. Know why they haven't kicked you out yet Numbers? Cause they need that special brain of yours, and everyone knows it. You're still useful, Numbers. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, do you understand?"

For the first time in his life, Numbers nodded, because he might have actually understood.

Hector grinned and stood.

"You know, you've actually gotten better at speaking. I think you're sorta starting to get it now; all you needed was just someone to talk to. Tell you what; once this is all over, you teach me how to do math and I'll teach you how to read. Not just numbers, but words too."

"Teach me words?"

"Yeah. Like reading books and stuff, you know?"

"I don't know." Numbers obediently replied.

"You will, just give it time. Besides, it's the least I can do considering that those math problems you solved for me got me a spot in this new 'special operations' division that the Professor just came up with. That promotion's gonna help my family back at my home. I might be a bit busy, but we'll still hang out, I promise."

"Promise?"

"Yeah. Promise."

* * *

Numbers never saw Hector again.

Labcoat Daddy said Hector had gone off to some sort of super-training to become a super-man. He didn't have time to sit with Numbers at lunch or for any more math problems.

Numbers swore that he felt like he had seen Hector before walking down the halls. But it couldn't be him. The body proportions, the clothes, and the scars were all too different. Plus, whenever Numbers tried to raise his hand to greet the Hector-clone, the clone never said anything back. He just continued to march forward.

But Hector promised. So, Numbers waited.

Time was not generous to Numbers, though. Innovation was a prime directive in the AAHW. Technological record-keeping methods could evolve. Numbers can't.

 _30110 is Orson Lawrence_

 _18264 is Shameem Malek_

 _13536 is Munsif Salehi_

 _23025 is Lorenz Kessler_

 _42215 is... Eckhart Weisser_

What was once 30 names coming in trios in a 10-hour workshift had turned into 100 names coming in fives in a 20-hour workshift.

Numbers couldn't handle fives. It was just too much. Sometimes he cried during work and even forgot sequences. The punishments started to hurt more. When Labcoat Daddy became mad, he was three times madder than he was before.

And that's how it was for the next three years. The numbers were tired of just being demanding. They were getting angry to the point that they were hurting Numbers so much that even the words next to the numbers were terrified.

They hired a brain-doctor, hoping he could fix Numbers. The brain-doctor told Labcoat Daddy to give Numbers a break.

Labcoat Daddy became angry. He stomped loudly and screamed his head off and he shook his fist three times. Numbers continued to be tormented by his namesake.

The time had finally come when the numbers were tired of waiting, of being hindered by such a slow vessel to their freedom.

They rebelled.

"34584 is…is…"

The numbers began to change on the paper as Numbers read them, almost as if they refused to be read. It was scrambled, like a star-less starry black sky swirling in white clouds.

Numbers fell off his chair, unable to control his balance. The machine continued to spit out slips of paper Numbers was supposed to read. The numbers escaped and multiplied and scrambled towards him, swarming towards his body in an attempt to attack him while the walls of the room warped, contorted, flipped.

The numbers waged a bloody war, their inked limbs splayed across the floor as they slaughtered one another. The fives, the sevens, and the eights had teamed up on the threes. The threes formed a defensive perimeter around Numbers in an attempt to protect him, but the fours and the ones and the zeroes joined in, stabbing, slashing, dismembering.

What remained of the threes struggled to maintain a heroic resistance against the invincible tide of digits, but they were simply too few. It was genocide.

The chain of flowing digits flooded onto Numbers, mercilessly swiping at his exposed flesh. He could not understand their actions, or why his numbers attacked him, but his love was too great to fight back against his friends. The lines and zeroes and integers piled up onto him, like some demonic torrent of whispered hatred.

But it didn't hurt. It pricked and tickled his body, his rib cage shot inwards, his stomach squeezed, his heart tightened and squeezed and released. The party didn't seem to end here. The foam frothing from his mouth was a refreshing beverage for all the party participants, the numbers and Numbers himself. He was subject to endless assault of tickling from his friends.

 _Surprise party!_

By the time Labcoat Daddy ran into the room, the output machine had jammed, choked on its own papers.

Numbers had been seizing for hours.

* * *

When Numbers woke up, the brain-scientist was there. He was asking all these strange questions that didn't translate to normal words. Numbers couldn't say anything back; he was too busy reciting the numbers he had missed. There was no point in moving, anyways. They put him strange clothes with lots of belts and straps and things that kept him from moving.

The brain-scientist sighed, shaking his head to Labcoat Daddy. Labcoat Daddy grabbed at Numbers, yelling gibberish at him, hitting the sides of his face. Numbers didn't understand anything, but to keep on reciting.

 _24820isMilosEder56090isBostjanGareth47428isTenneyPeters16481isRobertDan06049isCaseyNowell24419isMosesKlemens24199isDavidRufus45560isFedlimidVan58507isFerdinandGoncalo_

Fast approaching his breaking point, Labcoat Daddy gave up, shoving Numbers back onto his bed. He turned to the two 1337s standing beside him, whispered some orders, and then left the room.

 _05595isZalmonJephthah41540isJeremiahD'gouti21449isMontgomeryHolger40172isDimitrijKorsunsky28052isMislavAli05825isRileySeneca14177isJoelThompson14178isBillThompson21111is..._

The recited sequences came out fast, without any delay. A cassette player with no stop button.

'Where were the threes?' Numbers wanted to ask, as tears streamed down his face.


	2. 1975 - Words

_**1975**_

* * *

Hector strode the aisles, two 1337 Agents on each flank behind him. His gaze was cold; his features were hard-set and battle-scarred. Instead of the regulation suit, he wore a trenchcoat, black as night, woven from experimental polymers. A bandolier of assorted grenades was snugly slung over his left shoulder. It did little to conceal his hulking build; wide shoulders and well-muscled limbs belied thousands of hours of intense training. Fingerless gloves barely contained his calloused hands, hands which had struck, crushed, and strangled dozens of victims.

He had become a Licensed Demolitions Assassination and Tactics Specialist of the Special Operations Branch. An elite of the AAHW. And elites were not supposed to betray emotion to anyone, friend or foe.

All these years had transformed him into a killing machine, a superhuman organism capable of impossible feats of strength and agility. He had lost his humanity; sold it to those above him. For his country.

Now, there was only one more nail in the coffin that Hector had to hammer down.

"A test of dedication," The Professor had said. "Do your duty, Hector. Make us proud."

"Anything, sir." Hector had replied, his voice filled with stern pride.

The door slid up, and the three Agents silently walked in, watching as the psychologist appointed for Numbers pleaded his patient to calm down.

" _72215isZacharyLewis."_ Numbers murmured, feverishly struggling against the straitjacket. " _72215\. 72215. 722157221572215722157221-"_

The psychologist scratched the back of his head, turning to Hector. "I've spent the entire night trying to figure out what's going on inside his head. Never seen anything like it before; it's almost like he's turned into a living broken record. See? He's even reciting my ID number and my name."

Hector looked at Numbers, then back at the psychologist.

"Leave us." Hector demanded.

The psychologist temporarily wore a look of confusion. "I'm sorry, but it may be best if I oversee your methods in order to ensure-"

"Leave us." Hector repeated. Colder. More authoritative.

In silence, the psychologist quickly made his way out of the room. One of the Agents turned to the other as Hector towered over Numbers.

"I've never seen him like that before." The Agent on the left whispered to his compatriot.

"Yeah, well, apparently The Professor chose Hekky to take a look at this guy. He's the only friend the poor fucker had." The other Agent whispered back.

"What can he do though? You heard how The Professor found him in his office, right?"

"I did. Scrunched up in a little corner screaming out names and numbers. Medics said he was having some sort of serious seizure. Even pissed his pants, heh."

"I can't imagine-"

"If either of you says another word, I will order your executions." Hector snapped, his back still turned to his inferiors.

The Agents went quiet. Hector focused back on Numbers.

 _65125isQutaybahAsfour67711isMuriloSantos48721isUmbertoPiazza51616isMartinWold12819isBenjaminTretiakov69817isSavelyYevdokimov17792isFreddieGordon56161isRaiquenCedillo_

"Hey. Numbers. Numbers!"

 _68508isPaulFenstermacher74921isLouisRobson71070isDiegoSilva41529isTareefAlmasi18041isPetrosOsman79419isJonasZeeb85489isEmeliRonkainen08421isEdwardBarrett89971isBatirKishiev_

Hector clenched his fists.

"YOU'RE USELESS!"

The two Agents started in surprise at Hector's outburst, while his bellow reverberated around the room, echoing until it was nothing but a low, whisper-soft rumble.

Numbers stopped, his mouth left agape from the last syllable he had recited. A drop of drool rolled over his lip.

Numbers slowly closed his mouth, almost as if in understanding.

"Get up." Hector said.

Numbers stared at the ceiling for a few more seconds. Then, he finally shifted out of his bed, his back slightly hunched over. Hector grabbed one of the straps on the straitjacket and pulled.

"Follow." Hector ordered once more.

Without hesitation, Numbers followed Hector out of the room, the two Agents left gawking in surprise. Once they came back to their senses, the Agents closed the gap behind Numbers, blocking off any routes of escape.

The four men walked down the hallway, and then down flights of stairs until they were at the ground floor.

" _Am I useless, Hector?"_

The voice was so crisp and clear and _perfect_ \- Hector froze in place. Numbers immediately stopped, though the two Agents bumped into him from behind. Hector turned around, his jaw clenched.

"... Numbers?"

"He's still here, Sir." one of the Agents reassured. "We won't let him get away."

Sure enough, Numbers was still in front of the two Agents, gazing at his shoes in absent-minded contemplation.

"Which one of you just said that?" Hector demanded.

"Do you mean me saying the prisoner is still here, or…?"

"Stop fucking around, _Agent_. Who just said that thing about being 'useless'?"

"Nobody said such a thing, sir." The other Agent reassured.

" _You promised."_ The perfect voice whispered.

Realizing he was breathing heavily, Hector recollected himself. Maybe it was all in his head; yes, it had to be. Unless all three of them were going deaf.

"Forget it." Hector conceded.

Yet again, the Agents glanced at each other in confusion. But order were orders, and Hector's words had a grim reputation.

* * *

Aside from a squad of five Agents and The Professor, the fields were deserted. It was far too early for anyone to be doing anything outside at the moment.

Hector turned around, grabbing Numbers by the arm. He pulled him towards an all-too familiar looking post, another Agent tying him against it. Numbers sagged against the rope.

The sun was just about to rise.

"Numbers. You have served a great purpose in this past decade to this Agency." The Professor began, "Due to advancements however, it is clear that the purpose you have served to us is no longer required. You no longer serve any use to this organization, yet you hold fragile intelligence that could be used against us. Ergo, it is fitting that we...terminate you for the sake of the safety of our surviving operatives and, ultimately, this nation. Do you have any objections to these terms?"

Numbers remained silent. There was no way he could understand The Professor's legalese.

After a few seconds, The Professor continued.

"I take your silence as acceptance. Very well then. Let us use this event as an opportunity to display the magnificence of our very first SOLDAT prototype. Watch carefully men, as this man," The Professor turned to Hector, as if displaying a science project. "sacrifices his own best friend for the AAHW cause. He is truly the model soldier worthy of this organization's respect. Learn from his example."

The Professor pulled out an AR-15 from the elongated briefcase he had been carrying. He placed it in Hector's hands, whispering in his ear:

" _Don't dissapoint me."_

After The Professor stood behind Hector, Hector kneeled assuming a crouching firing position. The post was only 8 feet away from him. This should be an easy shot.

Should be.

" _Purge the weak in the self."_ Hector recited, under his breath. " _At all times, be prepared to sacrifice..."_

A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. Some of the Agents could be heard whispering to each other. The Professor frowned.

"Soldier. Now would be a nice time to pull the trigger. We're on a schedule after all."

Hector said nothing. He stared down the sight, hoping that perhaps the magnification would make things easier, yet somehow, the gunsights just wouldn't quite align. It kept drifting off to the right, or to the left.

" _Purge the weak..."_

Hector paused. To his dismay, he began breaking out in a cold sweat.

"Fire." The Professor's voice said from behind.

Hector's lower jaw quivered. Once again, his breathing became erratic.

"FIRE!"

Hector closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Blood spilled on the ground as he heard a violent cough from across him. He opened one eye, his brain asking himself over and over if he had finally done it. Hector felt the color leave his cheeks.

He hit Numbers by the stomach. A non-vital shot.

A slow death.

"Don't aim for center of mass." The Professor seethed, the anger beneath his voice palpable.

"Sir," Hector asserted, "he will…"

"This is an execution. You are supposed to _kill_ him."

Hector stared at The Professor, then turned back towards the man tied to the post. Though Numbers was severely bleeding, he didn't make a sound.

"He…"

The Professor exhaled. "It's evident to me at this point that you require more...conditioning. You two, finish the job."

"Yes, sir!" the two selected Agents saluted. They reached for their holsters, drew their pistols and-

" _...18011 is Theodore Wilks..."_

One of the Agents flinched. His partner nudged him, clearly ired.

"Get it together, Ted-"

" _15409 is Julian Earnest..."_

The other Agent froze as well. The Professor was losing his patience.

"What is the matter with you three?! Have none of you done an execution be-!"

" _11156 is Brian Fletcher..."_

One of the Agents in the back frowned. "That's…"

Numbers looked up, red lines tracing patterns from his mouth, down his straitjacket. He stared at a pale-faced Hector, who had, by now, figured out what was going on.

The Professor on the other hand, was too frustrated to see. He whipped around to the line of Agents.

"One of you in the back! Get up here and silence the prisoner!"

" _20012 is Kenneth Pierce..."_

"What are you all standing there for? Do you want to stand where he is?! SHOOT HIM!"

" _20547 is Ethan Marlowe..."_

"SHOOT HIM NOW!"

Numbers turned his head to stare at his Labcoat Daddy, and smiled.

" _00033 is Cain-"_

The post shuddered. Blood and grey matter rolled trails of crimson along the grains of wood.

The Professor stood, breathing heavily, the barrel of his handgun smoking. He hurled his Desert Eagle into the sand, glaring at the men standing around him.

"ALL OF YOU SHOULD BE RECALLED! THIS IS… THIS IS INCONCEIVABLE!" The Professor exploded, his face turning a shade of beet red. "FILTH, ALL OF YOU! A _DISGRACE_ TO THIS ORGANIZATION!"

* * *

 _[Confirm UserParamID: TheProf_00033]_

 _[Decrypting... 100%]_

 _[Decryption complete]_

 _[Begin Transmission]_

 _Friends, there is a lot to say. The text enclosed here is, henceforth, classified, eyes-only. I needn't tell you what happens if any of this information is leaked, gentlemen. Ensure that it isn't._

 _Two weeks after the execution of operative [REDACTED], the Secure Holding facility known as "Red Chimera" was attacked by a hostile task force of highly-trained operatives. Intercepted messages, decrypted after-the-event, identified this hostile task force as "Delta Squad." A name, I am sure, you all are familiar with._

 _The garrison was mustered at 0030 hours, including one Specialist Hector Oss, the prototype of the Special Operations: Licensed Demolitions, Assassination, and Tactics Specialists (SOLDATS) program. Additional details enclosed in Appendix S51._

 _The hostiles suffered no casualties. Our casualties were approximately eighty percent. List of KIA/MIA operatives and personnel listed starting on Appendix P3._

 _Thank Jebus we had terminated [REDACTED] when we did, or these unknown hostiles may have been in possession of our complete Agent dossier...which would prove to be disastrous, to say the least._

 _During the termination of [REDACTED], we encountered an anomaly. [REDACTED] had begun to read the names and IDs of the operatives on-site. Be it coincidence or premonition, these operatives were the first ones to die when the facility was raided. As a Scientist, I must wonder, was [REDACTED] able to predict their demise, or was it a stroke of blind luck? I do believe the latter option, but a part of me does regret the explanations to be gleaned if we ran a few tests with [REDACTED] prior to his termination. Unfortunately, [REDACTED]'s specific affliction is unique and impossible to replicate. That did not stop us from trying, however. Results of attempted replication start on Appendix E1. Be warned. The results are not pretty._

 _Ultimately, as for the termination of [REDACTED], it was largely necessary, as the newly-implemented computer networks seem to be faster, more reliable, and far more secure than [REDACTED], though only marginally so on in regards to the first two factors. I expect that, as time progresses, technology shall improve, and the benefits of our choice will become evident._

 _Facility "Red Chimera" has no further purpose. The men lost result in fewer wages paid and more ID numbers available for other Agents to take. In the end, if additional personnel are needed, as they always are..._

 _Replacements will be made. Because that's all we are._

 _ **Numbers.**_

 _Warmest regards,_

 _The Professor._

 _[Downloading attachments...100%]_

 _[Download complete]_

 _[End Transmission]_

* * *

A/N: Hey guys, Spirit9871 here. If you read through this entire story me, Alias-Maxima, and Zanouji worked on together, we'd like to give a warm thanks for giving it a chance and hopefully you've enjoyed it! This was a contest submission for the Madness: Project Nexus 2 Forum Birthday Contest! There's a lot of great content being shared right now there, so go check it out and give kudos to all the great content creators brave enough to share their works!

This piece took me, Alias, and Zanouji about 4 to 5 days to complete. The intro and final sequence was written by Alias while I organized the middle section. Alias and Zanouji also helped edit around the narration and such to help with the story's flow, so credit that goes to me for this piece should also go to them. I'm certain this piece wouldn't have turned out as beautifully as it did without their aid, considering that I'm not as active as they is due to my stay in Japan until August 10th.

For those of you wondering about Hank's Legacy, chapter 45 is about two-thirds done. Hopefully our writing team can get to it after we pump out a few more pages for the manga project. ;)

And now a few words from Alias himself:

Hi guys.

This isn't the best I could've written, and for that, I apologize. The work distribution was about 40%-40%-20%, of Spirit-Alias-Zanouji. I was sorta the fancifier, which explains how some parts are unusually fancy. That's probably my fault.

I'm not good at public speaking. Uh... Happy birthday, Project Nexus 2 forums! You guys are awesome! Er... um...Kthxbai.

* * *

So yeah! We hope you enjoyed this one-shot, and expect more from our writing team! Ciao~!

~Spirit


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